


By the Fire's Light

by daltoneering, tiptopevak



Series: Drabbles [6]
Category: Glee
Genre: D/s, Fluff, M/M, Medieval AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 06:14:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4127925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daltoneering/pseuds/daltoneering, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptopevak/pseuds/tiptopevak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Medieval d/s au in which Kurt is the son of the Lord of a kingdom, and Blaine is one of the castle servants. When the young submissive finds himself injured, it is Kurt who comes to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By the Fire's Light

Polish plates, clean table, dust cabinets, sweep dining hall floor, check on food, change, sweep again, tidy away any tools left around… He mentally checks each item off his list as he goes, rushing to and fro, frantically checking on the other servants, stopping every so often to lend a hand, then back to his duties. The day of the Summer Harvest festival is always the busiest day of the year.

Blaine swipes a finger along the top of a cupboard on his way to the kitchens, checking for dust and grime. Spotless. He smiles to himself--he’s only a young submissive, for a servant on his way to being housekeeper, but he’s certainly good at what he does.

The air of the kitchen is heavy, thick with heat that sits like a film on each of the servants’ skin. They blot sweat off their foreheads with the backs of their sleeves. Across the room, a pair of men bicker and grumble at one another, and beside them, one of the kitchen maids curses and dips her burned fingertips into a cup of water. Blaine catches his bottom lip between his teeth, wincing in sympathy for her, until--he spots Kurt. Again.

Wrist-deep in the sticky pastry dough of his fourth apple pie of the morning, his shirt sleeves are rolled up past his elbows, eyebrows furrowed with concentration. He huffs, and reaches for a pot of flour again.

Blaine sighs. It’s the third time today he’s found him down here--no matter how many times he politely requests that he return to his chambers and concern himself with his preparations for the evening, Kurt seems to insist on coming back down and making more apple pies. There’s a small part of Blaine that takes delight in seeing him so often (and his bare forearms glistening in the heat, a drop of sweat running down his temple--), but he squashes it down and turns on a professional smile.

“Master Hummel.”

Kurt barely looks up, too intent on working the dough with careful hands, his tongue poking out from between his lips. Blaine clears his throat and tries again. “Master Hummel.”

Flicker of the Master’s blue eyes, of the fair lashes that ring them. “Yes, Blaine?”

“The guests will be arriving shortly.”

There’s a pause in his kneading. Blaine cups his hands around the flour pot, and sets it aside. He passes Kurt a damp cloth, and puts a gentle hand on his arm, hoping to guide him in the direction of the staircase. “Lord and Lady Hummel are waiting for you,” he reminds him.

Kurt meets his eyes properly now, cheeks flushed pink with warmth. He presses his lips together and glances back down at the dough, then looks back at Blaine with a slight, teasing smirk. “How many times is it now?” he asks.

Blaine ducks his head, smiling. “Three, sir. May I accompany you back to your chambers?”

Kurt sighs and starts dusting the flour off his hands. “Alas, I knew it would never last,” he says lightly.

Blaine waits patiently as Kurt cleans himself up and reluctantly hangs his apron on a hook on the wall. He gestures him out of the room and falls into pace beside him in the corridor. “If you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to go up first to check that everything is in order.”

“Of course,” Kurt agrees, hanging back to let Blaine go up the servants’ staircase before him.

It’s a dark and winding set of stairs, but Blaine knows it well. At least, he thought so. He dodges the fifty-year-old crooked step, and keeps his hands safe from the splinter-laden area of the bannister. He’s humming to himself, quietly beneath his breath, thinking of the dusting of flour that had settled on the tip of Kurt’s nose and the way that Blaine’s fingers had twitched to brush it away. He makes Blaine giddy--Kurt _does_ ; he awakens butterflies in the pit of his tummy, and that trail of thought is what causes Blaine to lose his concentration, and stumble.

He feels himself topple, falling forwards up the stairs and landing with a loud bang on the first floor corridor. The crack of his knee against the hardwood planks fills his ears.

Pain licks at the skin of his knee, like a flame. Fumbling to right himself, he scrunches his nose up, squeezes his eyes shut, and presses himself back against the nearest wall.

“Blaine?” Kurt’s concerned voice follows him up the stairs. He must have heard the fall from below. “Are you alright?”

Blaine clenches his jaw against the pain, and manages to squeeze out a hurried apology. “I’m fine, Master Hummel, sorry, no need to--ahh--”

“You don’t sound fine. I’m coming up.”

He hears Kurt’s footsteps on the stairs, and knocks his head back against the wall. Stupid. Should have been looking where he was going, how’s he going to finish the festival preparations now--

“Gods, Blaine.” Kurt is crouched beside him, hand flitting anxiously over the tear in his leggings above his knee. He rubs a hand soothingly on Blaine’s shoulder and ducks his head a little to look him in the eye.

“Hey. _Hey_.” Blaine looks up, eyes smarting with tears. Kurt’s face is a picture of worry. He cups Blaine’s jaw with a soft hand, thumb stroking the apple of his cheek. “Come on, I’ll take you to my room. I can have a look at it there.”

Master Hummel’s chambers are a warm, open and familiar sight, but Blaine is still shaking when he steps inside, eyes big and wet like those of a cornered animal.  He curls his hands tight into the material of Kurt’s doublet in an attempt to quell the trembling of his fingers.

Kurt’s voice is soft in his ear. “You’re okay,” he soothes, guiding Blaine further in, arm wrapped tight and secure around his waist. “You’re fine--come sit over here with me.”

Blaine stumbles. Shakes. Forgets to--

“ _Breathe_ ,” whispers Kurt. He eases Blaine into the softest armchair that’s part of the gathering of furniture beside the fire, and settles in front of him on a little stool, hands palm-up and waiting patiently for Blaine to take them.

Blaine’s breath tugs wetly with tears in his chest. “Sorry,” he says, voice cracking. Out of the corner of his eye, he can make out the blurry shape of Kurt’s formal outfit, hanging pressed and proper just outside of his wardrobe. _That_ is what Kurt should be doing--getting ready for the Festival. _Oh gods, the Festival_.

Kurt sighs, which reels Blaine’s attention back in. His touch is gentle when he cradles one of Blaine’s gnarled fists, carefully prying it apart. “Hey, come on, let me see.” Blaine uncurls his fist, palm scratched from hitting the floor. “There you go,” says Kurt softly, cupping his hand in his and stroking his thumb over his wrist. “I’m going to get some salve to put on it. Wait right here.”

Blaine watches as Kurt hurries over to a cabinet, opening up a drawer and taking out a little glass jar filled with a cream-coloured substance. “I’m going to rub this on your hands and knee, alright?”

Blaine nods shakily.

Kurt looks down at his knee. “Um. Could you--take these off?” He fiddles with the tear in Blaine’s leggings. Blaine swallows, and nods, shakily pushing himself to his feet. Kurt stands with him and catches his elbow as he wobbles a bit, cradling him to his chest.

Blaine sucks his breath in sharply. Kurt’s scent is dizzying. They are so close, he’s only ever dreamt--and Kurt is practically radiating his dominance now, stroking his arms as he waits patiently for Blaine to regain his balance. “Come on, sweetheart,” he says. “Do you need a hand?”

The thought of Kurt helping him with _that_ is almost staggering in itself, but he shakes his head and carefully unties the top of his leggings, letting them fall down his legs and puddle at his feet.

He notices Kurt looking away carefully as he tightens the tie on his underwear and pulls his tunic down as far as possible. “I--um--”

“Okay,” says Kurt, and it’s as if he knows just what Blaine needs, gently lowering him back into the chair and sitting on the little stool again. Slowly, carefully, he inches the hem of Blaine’s tunic back enough to expose his knee.

“Oh, honey,” he breathes, hissing.

Blaine blinks his eyes closed again once more, blush pooling in his cheeks, all the way to the tips of his ears. His breath catches again, at the back of his throat. All that he manages to do is hunch his shoulders tighter, higher, making himself small.

“It’s fine,” he mumbles. A moment later, he feels Kurt’s hands back at his wrists, holding and stroking them soothingly. The touch helps him to breathe; reminds him to exhale after inhaling.

“Good boy,” Kurt murmurs to him, and Blaine peeks open an eye, just in time to see as well as feel when Kurt lifts one of his injured hands to his lips, brushing a gentle kiss to the skin. “Just breathe for me.”

He does. Inhale, exhale. Watches the candlelight cast shadows across Kurt’s face as he applies the salve firstly to the grazes on Blaine’s palms.

“That’s right,” says Kurt, stroking over Blaine’s wrists once the salve is sticky all over his hands. “Breathe. I’m going to do your knee now. This might sting.”

He reaches across to the little wash stand by the fireplace and dips a cloth into the jug of water, squeezing it out and kneeling down in front of Blaine again. It feels a little off, to see him at his feet like that. Like they should be the other way round.

The first touch to his knee _stings_ , and he gasps, almost clenching his fists before realising that those hurt too and just pressing his head back against the arm chair. Kurt strokes his calf with his free hand as he cleanses the wound, and soon the water is cooling rather than stinging and Blaine can start breathing again.

He rubs the salve on gently then stands up, washing his hands in the little basin and moving the stool away from the chair. “I think you need to lie down,” he says kindly. “You look very shaken.”

He reaches down, and for a moment Blaine is confused, then--oh. Kurt wraps his arms around his chest and pulls him steadily to his feet, so that Blaine can rest on his good leg and against his chest. He hopes Kurt can’t feel how fast his heart is beating.

Kurt slowly leads him through an archway and into his magnificent bedroom. Surely he doesn’t mean--

He sits Blaine down on the edge of his bed and strokes a hand through his hair. “You’re being very brave,” he says softly, and Blaine ducks his head, lets out a wet little laugh. “Come on, lie down.”

He can hardly believe that he is here--Kurt is looking after him, Kurt is touching him, Kurt is asking him to _lie on his bed_ \--but he does so obediently, resting his head back on the pillows as Kurt carefully lies a blanket over his bare legs. He shifts onto his side so that it’s not touching his knee.

Kurt takes a seat on the edge of the bed beside Blaine, smoothing a cluster of curls gently back off his clammy forehead. “I’ll just be a moment,” he murmurs. “Stay here, sweetheart.”

Blaine’s eyes follow him across the room, out through the archway once more. For a moment, his heart squeezes behind his ribs--the thought of being left alone when he so recently felt distressed is daunting. However, the pillows are soft beneath his head, the clean scent of _Kurt_ all over the sheets--it’s less than a few minutes before his tired eyes are drooping, thoughts becoming slow.

He must drift away for a moment or two, because the next time he blinks his eyes open, Kurt is back in the bedchamber. He’s stripped of his crinkled morning clothes, and has instead dressed himself in a soft pair of leggings and a tunic, and he’s crouched down in front of the hearth, adding logs to the simmering fire.

Blaine presses a weak hand to the bed, tries to push himself up. “Master Hummel, I can--That’s--”

Kurt glances back at him with concern, where he’s wobbling in a half-upright position in the middle of the bed. Having cleaned off his hands, he climbs to his feet, and sits back on the edge of the bed.

“Lie down. I want you to rest for me,” he softly reminds him, easing Blaine down into the nest of pillows.

The warmth of Kurt’s hand over Blaine’s tunic takes the breath from his chest. He goes without any hesitation, settling easily, and avoids Kurt’s bright eyes.

Kurt smiles at him, and pulls the blanket higher up his body, smoothing it carefully on his chest. “I would like to lie down with you. Would that be alright?”

Blaine feels like his heart _stops_ , because Kurt just--did he really just say--

Kurt’s looking at him with open, accepting eyes and a slight smile, and Blaine thinks, _There is nothing in the world I would want more_.

He opens to his mouth to try and say “yes” but no sound comes out, so he makes himself nod, heart racing in his chest. Kurt’s smile widens and he walks around to the far side of the bed, sitting gently and lying down on the other side of him, moving slowly so as not to further hurt his knee.

Blaine has his back to Kurt, but he feels the bed move, and suddenly there’s a warm hand sweeping down his arm and breath on the back of his neck. “Is this okay?” Kurt breathes.

Blaine squeaks, and Kurt must understand that it’s a yes, because he rolls closer, pressing his chest to Blaine’s back and sliding an arm around his waist, the other settling in his hair. His breath ghosts across the skin below Blaine’s ear. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Everything’s gonna be okay now.”

Blaine feels so _safe_ and warm, cocooned in Kurt’s arms, and he feels himself relaxing. If he had known his day was going to end like this, maybe he wouldn’t have felt quite so stressed about--

“The festival! Kurt, Master Hummel, we need to--”

Kurt’s hand is on his shoulder, guiding him to lie back down. “Hey, _hey_ , it’s okay. The festival isn’t important.”

“But--”

“Blaine. Calm down, honey. I’ve spoken to my father, he’s not expecting either of us there tonight. Alright?”

Blaine’s muscles have strung tight again with the realisation, but it isn’t long before he melts anew under Kurt’s soft touches--the stroke of his fingers through Blaine’s curls, the brush of his hand down Blaine’s side and over his hip.

In a voice so sweet, like honey dripping from a spoon, Kurt whispers, “Good boy. Breathe for me. We’re okay,” into Blaine’s neck. Slides his arm further around Blaine’s waist, and finds one of his cold, injured hands. He wraps it carefully in his own fingers, thumb tracing the delicate skin of Blaine’s wrist. “Good boy. I’ve got you.”

Contentment blossoms in Blaine’s chest, like a flower soaking in sunshine. Dipping his chin low, he hides the smile that’s creeping across his cheeks.

“Thank you, sir,” he manages to say, a moment later when the warmth in his chest has dimmed to a low simmer of happiness.

He feels Kurt’s smile against the back of his neck, and the soft kiss pressed there. “No, Blaine. Thank _you_.”

He’s not entirely sure what Kurt’s thanking him for, but it settles in his chest like a promise. And with a smile on his face, he lets himself drift off to sleep. 


End file.
